


Theory and Chalk

by orphan_account



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Ableism, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Trauma, Rating May Change, Slow Build, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newt and Hermann blunder their way through 3 Shatterdomes' worth of arguments, tensions and misgivings. The PPDC is a bag of dicks, the Earth has a chronic illness, and time stops for no man. Or something. From one cranky disabled scientist to another: I detest you, but nobody else understands about the shower chair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theory and Chalk

A partial, as-yet-and-ever-incomplete list of things Hermann Gottlieb hates:

Medical doctors. Uneven surfaces. Cold weather (any temperature below approximately 7°C). The music of Schoenberg. The discipline of psychology. Dry toast. The number nine (9). The “popular science” articles in magazines. Newscasters; news; the public eye. The phrase “reasonable accommodations”. Vague instructions. Hyperbole. Hypocrisy. Disorganized work spaces. Kaiju innards.

Dr. Newton Geiszler, followed by an asterisk.

Dr. Newton Geiszler, pending inclusion on that list.

–

Lima, Anchorage, Hong Kong like a litany. Perhaps like a dirge.

Lima, Anchorage, Tokyo, Sydney, Los Angeles, Vladivostok, Panama City, Hong Kong. The first and the last. Hermann Gottlieb understands the value of place. He can map the Shatterdomes out in his head as a series of words, a series of points (longitude and latitude), even as flat two-dimensional versions of the world continue to baffle him. He can speak of place in numbers, if not pictures.

12.0433° S, 77.0283° W.

It's sweltering hot even with two fans going in the lab, and to his left, Newton Geiszler is sitting on a shipping crate, one ankle balanced on the opposite knee, squinting at an upside-down tablet. The tablet displays a map of Lima's city center. Newton frowns and rubs absently at the sweat beading on his forehead, and Hermann once again feels that kick of guilt in his stomach. The same one he felt when, two days back, he found Newton wandering the nighttime halls with no idea how to get back to his room. The one that says, _You are not so different, you and him._ Hermann steadfastly ignores it.

They'd covered that about thirty minutes after meeting, when Newton had gestured at Hermann's cane and said, “So, what's up with that, dude?”

Hermann had grimaced, twitched, and planted his feet more firmly on the ground. “What is up with _you_?”

Newton laughed – his laugh was high, childish, and regrettably infectious. “I dunno, man. You got a few hours?”

Hermann made some perfunctory facial movement to convey that he recognized the joke, and that was that. No need to pry any further. In a perfect world, they would be free to avoid each other, and thus avoid the shame that came of consorting with one's own kind. But no: they were coworkers. Besides, Hermann wasn't sure if Newton Geiszler was capable of shame.

So. Lima, Peru. It was summer, which lasted half the year, and which kept the temperature within a blissfully mild range; the heat inside was due to the Shatterdome's construction. But it was preferable to cold. Hermann had felt his muscles open to the humidity, the minute he stepped off the plane. His body reorienting itself. Bones shifting and cracking like ice in the early spring. Hermann's body was a stranger to him, even now, and so he let it make its adjustments as he stood by, bewildered.

Newton's hand had been damp and puffy, when they shook. His glasses had been askew, his tie nearly falling off, his eyes bright and his face a bevy of nervous tics. Hermann hoped his own involuntary tremors weren't too prominent. He'd wanted to make a good impression, a desire which withered and died the instant Newton opened his mouth. There was no point in directing social graces at a man who openly flouted them. Hermann had swallowed his dignity then and there, swallowed his future, quietly resigned himself to humiliation before Marshall Pentecost and the rest of the K-Sci staff. Because, of course, he would end up associated with Newt. They were to be the closest of co-workers.

No one else thought in the way they did.

_Genius_ was the word, when you wanted to be kind.

–

This was Lima, the city of _cielo de brujas_ , before the troubles, before the budget cuts. Later, Hermann would remember it with a hazy and stubborn romanticism. Like the pebbly skin of a lizard, that was Lima: a lizard who has spent all day on a rock in the sun, and allows you to trace a finger over its back. Yes. That was the memory, and if he neglected to think of the drizzly mornings, of dragging his aching joints to the lab with a head full of mist, then – well. One is permitted these lapses, at the end of the world.

Lima was about him and Newton learning how to fight. Learning to needle one another to the point of breakthrough, as their K-Sci colleagues looked on in amusement or disgust. Hermann could still climb to the top of his ladders with a semblance of ease, and Newt would still pull three all-nighters in a row and show up at work, grinning, with a thermos of coffee and ten new ideas. It was good. It was – oh, sod it, memory is a disgrace, he likely hated every second of it but he's lying here miserable in his bunk in Hong Kong, and nostalgia will out.

–

No: there were a few Troubles in Lima.

Their lab director was Dr. Paloma Torres, 5'1” of bustling energy and sharp, expressive hands. Hermann liked her; she was no-nonsense, clear in her instructions, and the smile that twinkled in her eyes rarely spread to her lips. A thick dark ponytail swung between her shoulder blades; her brown, open face was dusted with freckles. She had a husband and a kid in town.

Dr. Torres – Paloma, she'd insist, and Hermann would politely decline – made it almost bearable to be one of six scientists crammed in an undersized lab. Especially when one of those scientists was Newton. Hermann stuck to his corner, his blackboards and simulator, and treasured the moments when she'd pass by and drop a friendly hand on his shoulder. (Newton, meanwhile, stole too many of the electrical outlets and generally made a nuisance of himself.)

But occasionally Paloma would leave. She'd go on vacation with her family, or deliver a report to another Shatterdome, and the rest of them would be left alone and Hermann would feel dread congealing in his stomach.

The first few times she left Dr. Lev in charge. That wasn't so bad. Lev was their resident biogeochemist, studying the effects of kaiju blue on coastal environments and ecosystems. He was a slender, bald black man who kept his workspace neat as a pin, and no one could figure out his accent. Earlier that year he'd wished Newt a happy Purim, and Newt had nearly fallen over. “Shit, dude, I forgot! I am _so bad_ about that stuff, you have no idea. I can't even tell when it's Friday.” After that, Lev and Newt had made it their joint business to sort-of-celebrate Jewish holidays in the Shatterdome, with Hermann a guilty and uncertain hanger-on.

So it was all right, to have Lev as lab director for a couple weeks. But then – but then, Paloma had to go to a conference, and was to be away for four days, and she caught Hermann by the arm as he left the lab. Hermann startled and she apologized, hands flying, and Hermann shrank into himself and made conciliatory sounds.

“Hermann,” said Paloma. “Sorry – Dr. Gottlieb. I'd like you to take over the lab while I'm gone. Keep things in order.” She was smiling, wide and pearly, as though this proposal made any sense.

“Oh,” said Hermann, who suddenly felt as though his body parts had been distributed at random along the coastline. “I – I must apologize, Dr. Torres, but I don't think that is going to work.”

“Why not?” She was bouncing, steadily, on the balls of her feet. Hermann envied all his colleagues their energy.

“I simply do not do well in leadership positions, I'm afraid.” It shouldn't be this difficult. He shouldn't have to convince her. “Why not leave Dr. Lev in charge? He's proven himself quite competent.”

Paloma shook her head, ponytail whipping side to side. “Matthias needs a break from supervisor duties. Look, I understand your – concern, Dr. Gottlieb, but you'll do fine. I don't think anyone else has the safety protocol memorized.” She grinned, reached up to pat his shoulder, and strode off down the hall.

Hermann stood there, bewildered and inert. He shook himself, as though the motion would return him to an earlier save point. (That was a Geiszler-ism. Somehow it had wormed its way into his brain.) Then he shambled back to his quarters for a cup of tea, keeping his mind valiantly blank, in the hopes that he could will the past five minutes out of existence.

–

“I don't see what the problem is,” said Newt, who was stirring an obscene amount of sugar into his coffee. He swirled the spoon, bent down to inspect the liquid, and continued. “I mean, you order _me_ around all the time.”

“Of course I order you around,” Hermann snapped. They were in the mess hall, at the beverage counter. He sorely regretted having brought up the subject. “Because you _break_ all of the rules. That does not mean I have _made_ the rules. The rules are – they are _there_ , and I follow them, and you don't!”

His voice had risen in pitch and volume. Newt gave him a skeptical look, over the frames of his ridiculous “hipster” glasses. “Okay, man. Calm down, okay? So rules just _spring_ out of the ether” – he made an expansive hand gesture – “and you've got to follow them. I get it. Sounds rough.”

Hermann's mouth twitched in distaste. “You know perfectly well that is not what I meant.”

“Mmph,” said Newt, gulping his coffee. He shrugged.

Hermann glanced over both shoulders to ensure that no one was eavesdropping on them. He already regretted bringing up the topic. But it wasn't as if he could talk to any of their other lab-mates about this. They viewed him as hyper-competent, but Newton – well. Newton stared at him sometimes and made Hermann feel that his skin had gone translucent.

Newton would snicker rudely when Hermann made a visible mistake. Hermann would yell back and criticize Newt's methods of inquiry.

It was how they did things.

“Besides,” Hermann said now. “Even if I had no reservations about leadership abilities – and I do – the timing is of import. Marshall Pentecost is coming down to check on our progress, and – ”

“Oh my _god_ ,” said Newt, and set his coffee mug down on the counter with a _thunk_. “Is _that_ what this is about? Dude, you are like, way too concerned about his approval. You need to chill out. I don't know if it's like, a dad thing or a military thing, or, but...”

“Shut up,” Hermann hissed. He was now sorely regretting this conversation. “Kindly refrain from your pop-psychology speculations. The point is, I am unqualified to report on the state of the lab as a whole.”

Newt was smirking. “Whatever.” He sipped his coffee, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “You know, this wouldn't be such a problem if you didn't jerk it to the chain of command all the time.”

“I – _what_ ,” Hermann sputtered, more affronted by the sheer illogic than by anything else. “And how, do you propose, should I – ” He refused to repeat Newt's vulgar phrase. “The chain of command is an abstract concept. Your accusations – You are an idiot. What you suggest...”

Newt snorted and turned away; Hermann caught a glimpse of his exaggerated eye-roll as he did so. “It's called a metaphor, Rain Man,” Newton mumbled, and for a moment Hermann wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.

Then Newton stilled, his shoulders tensing in opposition to their torque, and he swung back to face Hermann with a guileless open mouth and eyes like a terrified rabbit, Hermann could see the _oh shit gone too far_ on his tongue, and Hermann was struck by three thoughts in quick succession:

      1. The line was not Newton's. He could see it. Newton at eleven, or fourteen, blundering his way through casual conversation – resorting to pedantry, as Hermann had – and one of his interlocutors sneering that back at him in a subtle, pointed jab. _It's called a metaphor, Rain Man._

      2. Newton returning home befuddled, distraught, but instinctually filing the sentence away for future use – chucking it in a mental folder marked _Insults_ , not even a conscious act, just _this is how bullies talk ammunition fodder_ – Hermann could _see_ it, unformed slipstream thoughts passing by so clearly he wondered for a second if he'd gone mad, succumbed to the influence of ambient talk of the Drift – but no, it was merely one of those things you _knew_ , he knew, he knew.

      3. _I hate you._




He spoke the last one aloud. “I hate you,” said Hermann – quiet, flat.

“Oh, _whoa_ ,” said Newt. His face remained nervous, but the words were confident, thick with sarcasm. “I'm heartbroken. Truly. I mean, I care _so_ much about your opinion of me – Hey! I was going to help you, dude!” he yelled, as Hermann left him and stalked off toward the door.

He left his tea behind, but dignity was paramount.

That night, Hermann received a text message from Newton. All of the K-Sci team had exchanged numbers, but Hermann was careful to keep any non-work-related communication to a minimum. The text was a single word:

_sorry_

Hermann texted back:

_It's quite all right._

Much as it pained him, that was the truth. He could forgive Newton his ill-advised echoes, and he would muddle his way through directing the lab alone. Four days. Stiff upper lip.

Lima, Gottlieb vs. Geiszler, round one. Zero-zero.

 

**Author's Note:**

> cut my life into pieces
> 
> i didnt ask to write a newt/hermann fic much less one of those goddamn multi-year multi-shatterdome slow-build ust-laden monstrosities but HERE WE ARE
> 
> i'm so sorry about the (eventually reclaimed) rain man jokes
> 
> oh btw: hermann has CP and newt and hermann are both hella neuroatypical


End file.
